


Blue Satinalia

by Lalaen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Polyamory, Satinalia (Dragon Age), Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaen/pseuds/Lalaen
Summary: Dorian has never enjoyed the holidays, and isn’t planning on starting. His partners want to show him that’s okay.
Relationships: The Iron Bull/Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Satinalia 2020





	Blue Satinalia

**Author's Note:**

> For the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Discord server Satinalia collection! Beta’d by BECandCall (whoooo also came up with the title!)
> 
> This is definitely in the timeline of Enlea’Enasal, but probably 15-18 months down the line.

It was far from the most lavish Satinalia celebration that Dorian had attended, but Skyhold was full of more than enough holiday cheer to make Dorian miserable. He hated explaining his sour mood, hated the inevitable ‘but it’s Feastday!’ from every damn person who spoke to him, and hated the most anyone trying to pry into his business. 

He didn’t _have_ to be happy today. There wasn’t a single thing to be happy about. 

Everywhere he looked was another memory he wasn’t interested in dwelling on. The hot spiced cider was standing outside his mother’s bedroom door with a mug in both of his small hands, listening to a servant begging her to get out of bed and wish her son a happy holiday. Lady Pavus, of course, only asked for more wine. The cheerful seasonal music was sitting in his dormitory in his third Circle Collegiate, waiting for a letter from his father that wouldn’t come. The smells of the traditional courses cooking; the suckling pig on a spit dripping with honey, the herbed breads, the roasted nuts… that only brought to mind Felix dragging him down to the kitchen in the Alexius estate. He wanted to think about that absolutely least of all. 

It was the fondness of that memory that brought him pain, now, like so many others in that household. The only Satinalias that he’d ever spent happy were with Felix and his father; who’d treated him as a second son. Who’d each year had aside a gift for Dorian, even when he no longer lived with them. 

Maker’s mercy, Dorian was not drunk enough for this. 

He refilled his goblet and retreated to the quietest hearth, wanting the warmth and comfort of it despite how horribly festive it was with the boughs and berries on the mantle. Of course this holiday infected even the calming rush of a burning flame. 

… though perhaps if some of the decor were alight. That could be something. 

Anyone who might be considering coming to speak with him was met with a blistering look. Varric, at least, returned it with one of understanding - though somehow that was almost worse. _At least do me the courtesy of hurrying away…_

Gethrael looked stunning tonight, hair twisted up with a jewelled pin that sparkled in the dim light of the hall, eyes shining with wonder. Delighted by it all, of course. Obviously he’d adore it, a day where everyone was so full of happiness. Dorian drank deeply, and placed his hand on the pouch where he’d put the little gift. 

He could not possibly inflict himself on that beacon of positivity. Let him have fun, he deserved that much and more. This gift… maybe it was a mistake, anyways. 

The ghosts of Dorian’s past were his alone, not fit to ruin anyone else’s celebration. 

...

This whole Feastday thing was pretty exciting, in Gethrael’s opinion. There seemed to be an unlimited amount of surprises to the celebration, despite Josephine, Dorian and Vivienne all calling this party ‘modest’. Vivienne specifically said it multiple times, in the sort of way that made Geth think it was an insult. He’d figured out by now that it was safest to assume everything she said was an insult. 

To Gethrael, nothing about this night was modest. In fact, it seemed excessive in every way, he hadn’t seen the like of it even at Arlathvan - which only happened every ten years! Skyhold was decked out in bright red winter berries and evergreen boughs, wine was flowing freely, and the sheer amount of food defied logic. Course after course was offered, and even now there were sweets, nuts and Orlesian finger foods passed around. The elf did not know how anyone could eat this much; he certainly couldn’t. He was uncomfortably full even before dessert. 

However, Geth really and truly wished that someone had let him know about the gifts. He felt terrible not having anything to offer in exchange, seeing as the entire Inquisition seemed to have gotten him things. Cassandra had awkwardly offered him a beautiful but highly practical hairpin of hammered silver, and Josie was so excited to present a pair of perfectly fitted kidskin gloves with fine embroidery. Sera had run up to him, breath smelling strongly of wine, and kissed him on both cheeks before pressing a drawing into his hand and saying this was the best Feastday ever. Blackwall gave him a heavy fur-lined cloak, ‘because you’re always so damn cold’.

Leliana, after giving him a lovely new writing pen, happily regaled him with stories of the various wild Orlesian Satinalia festivities she’d seen over the years. When she’d seen his interest, she’d gone on at length about traditions all over Thedas. Each seemed yet more insane to him, until he was sure she must be making them up. Laughing, she told him to ask Josie if he didn’t believe that Antivans celebrated the holiday for an entire week. 

Then he was swept away into more well-wishes and presents. This night seemed infinite, and despite his embarrassment at not having things to give and his surprise at the lavish celebration, Gethrael really enjoyed it. There was an incredible feeling of warmth, of genuine _happiness_ that permeated the hall of Skyhold. A familiarity and sense of community he’d hardly felt since leaving clan Lavellan. 

The hour was growing late when Geth realized what was missing. He’d barely seen Dorian at all, not even in his peripherals. Both of his lovers usually gave him plenty of space at events due to the sheer amount expected of him, but Dorian tended to flit in and out as though he couldn’t bear to be away for too long. The Iron Bull kept his distance, but Gethrael often felt his gaze throughout the night; and tonight was no exception. 

So where was Dorian?

Gethrael caught sight of him by one of the fires, neither engaged in conversation nor casually people-watching. Even from across the hall, something was clearly off. Geth felt it in his stomach the moment he saw the mage. Almost without thinking, he started towards Dorian, watching him knock back the last of the glass of wine in his hand. 

“Look at you, being the life of the party,” he said playfully as he got close, reaching out and trailing a light touch down Dorian’s arm, paying no mind that his lover was already turning away. He expected a witty quip in return, of course, and maybe one of those enticing lingering looks. 

“An exaggeration if ever I heard one. I was just about to turn in.” Dorian’s voice sounded stiff, even disregarding his words, and Gethrael’s feeling of wrongness increased. The sounds of the party faded into the background as he became solely focused on whatever was going on here. 

“Alright,” he said immediately and decisively. “You know, I’m very tired, too.” He took Dorian’s elbow, gripping just firmly enough that it would be a scene to brush him off. His advisors had accused him of being immovable when he set his mind on something, and at the moment he was set on fixing what was the matter.

“I didn’t-” Dorian started, and cut himself off with a heavy sigh, no doubt realizing he wasn’t likely to get away. “You’ll be missed here, you know.”

“They’ll make do,” Gethrael said pleasantly, steering them towards the door to the tower. 

“You can’t miss the festivities on my account,” Dorian said as they climbed the stairs, “Josephine will have my head.” He was trying to sound more playful, but even Geth could hear the difference in his tone, and didn’t let go of his arm. 

“Come on,” the elf actually laughed. “Who would ever think it’s on your account? Everyone in Skyhold will assume I’ve dragged you off for a tumble.” It was honestly true, but keeping up their usual teasing was also the best way to stop Dorian from getting defensive at him. 

“... You know, I really can’t argue that.”

“I know you can’t!”

Closing the interior tower door on their heels, Gethrael didn’t even go up the last flight of stairs before turning to Dorian and giving him a long look. He finally released his grip on the mage’s arm and placed a hand on either side of his head, thumbs resting naturally in the soft place behind the corner of his jaw. Geth kissed him; slowly and tenderly and not at all the way he would if he wanted to fuck. He made it last, let himself lean on Dorian in a way that was much more warm than it was needy. It took a moment, but he knew he’d succeeded when he felt both hands resting on his lower back, pressing just enough to keep him close. 

“Besides, who are you to tell me I’m not tired?” Gethrael said as he pulled away - only enough for them to look at each other - and grinned. 

“I doubt that you are,” Dorian said, though his words were a lot less stiff and a lot more flirtatious at least. That momentarily overwhelmed Geth, and he had to lean in and steal another brief kiss. “- maker. Let’s at least get inside properly.” 

Though the elf was never one to turn down sex, Iron Bull had told him to watch for Dorian doing this; getting physical because he wanted to avoid any possible discussion that might make him vulnerable. Still, here was Gethrael almost falling for it. Often he did, but tonight he remained intent. When they reached the bed and Dorian sat on the edge, Geth ducked under his arm and sat across his lap, leaning on his shoulder in a way so thoroughly unsexual that it couldn’t be misinterpreted. 

Dorian gave another heavy sigh, even as his arms settled on Gethrael’s waist and squeezed him close. “I’m loathe to taint your night with my misery,” the mage said in that casual, dismissive way of his. “Seeing as this is your first Satinalia, it is still positively _brimming_ with joy and wonder.”

There were many things that could be said, but Gethrael settled on a mild, “that’s an awfully dramatic thing to say, Dorian,” without lifting his head from Dorian’s shoulder. 

“Be that as it may, I do stand by it.”

“You don’t like this… ah, festival?” Geth said, needling him just the slightest. If he did want to talk, it should be enough to start him going. Geth was happy to listen, but this seemed less like a frantic ranting sort of night and more like a subdued melancholy one. Much harder to fix. 

“Ah, let’s just say not all of us have warm and loving family memories surrounding the event.”

Gethrael waited, gazing up at him with as much affection and acceptance that he possibly could. That was just the kind of bitter statement that might launch Dorian into a diatribe, but it also might not. He placed his hand on the centre of the mage’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. Nothing more came - Dorian just went back to looking like he was far away. 

...

Gethrael had this expression he did - sort of a bemused one - that The Iron Bull thought of as ‘silly humans!’, and meant he was struggling to understand some aspect of human culture or tradition. It was one of the first things about the elf that’d charmed him. As a Qunari, something about it was deeply relatable; and although Geth made that face less and less over the past year as he acclimated to living among humans, tonight’s celebration was bringing it back in full force. As usual, Bull watched him from afar, not interfering but staying aware of where he was and how he was faring. It was extremely unlikely that anything would happen to the Inquisitor at Skyhold, but it was a habit. 

If his kadan did need him, Iron Bull would know about it. In the meantime, he celebrated with the Chargers and an extremely drunk Sera. Though he could kind of take or leave Feastday, Bull could get behind any good excuse for a party. Josie threw a great party when it suited her, and it seemed she was a big fan of the holiday. 

Gethrael was enjoying himself tonight. Dorian was not, and so bad at hiding it that it was almost funny. Clearly it was the day itself that bothered him, because if it was anything else he’d be beyond delighted to lose himself in a celebration like this. Instead he was just losing himself in the wine part of it; not surprising. There were a million little tells, visible from even this distance, but Bull didn’t bother cataloguing them when it was so blatantly obvious to anyone with eyes. Even Cassandra would be able to see how miserable he was. 

As much as the Qunari would like to help him, he knew him too well to try it. Dorian got combative if Bull ever offered him support, so unless the mage decided to come to him there wasn’t much he could do. It did happen, sometimes; but that was a door Dorian had to open himself. There was one person who could force that door open, one person he didn’t seem capable of being angry at. 

When Bull saw Gethrael attaching himself to Dorian’s side, he smiled into his mug of ale. The elf’s expression was all bright and cheery as one would expect, but Iron Bull saw a certain tightness behind that infectious smile of his; and something in his posture, the curve of his back that said he was giving Dorian no quarter. No doubt that grip he had on the mage’s arm was like iron. 

_Good job, little one._

The Iron Bull did not rush to finish his drink, laughing and joking with his men - Sera had disappeared somewhere. It was best to give those two a couple minutes alone. Gethrael was a good listener, and when Dorian got in that weird frantic state of his, the Inquisitor actually handled it better than Bull ever could. He’d sit there and listen in that way he did, with all of himself; gazing at Dorian with just the right amount of understanding, quietly asking if he was alright when he paused for breath. Iron Bull ended up annoyed with how much he circled around his problems and started pushing him towards the part where he admitted them. That said; there was always a risk of Dorian just initiating sex to get out of the whole thing. 

Gethrael was a simple man in many ways, especially that one. 

That in mind, Bull called for a last toast and bid the Chargers goodnight. Krem got a one-armed hug that he answered with an elbow in the ribs, clearly embarrassed. A few drunken ‘Happy Feastday!’s followed him as he crossed the hall to go up to the Inquisitor’s tower. 

Bull kept an ear out as he approached the inner door - well, Dorian wasn’t yelling. Music and chatter still bled in from the hall, but the Vint was sure louder than that. Bet was on sex, then. Geth was pretty damn loud, but mostly when he had something up his ass.

Rapping his knuckles against the interior door, Iron Bull gave them a “S’just me,” before he opened it. 

Bull was proud of the Inquisitor when he saw that he’d shoved himself in Dorian’s lap, because judging by that resigned expression, someone _had_ been trying to initiate sex. 

These two were pretty predictable. 

“Mind if I join in?” Iron Bull asked, in the same voice he would’ve used if they really were mid fuck. 

“Well, I’m not precisely sure what there is to join in on,” Dorian said sourly. Gethrael paid his tone no mind, tucking his head in the crook of the man’s neck; and Bull didn’t either. He sat on the bed beside them, very close but not quite touching. “Oh _excellent_ , I see it’s time for everyone to pity me.” Dorian muttered, shrinking incrementally away from Iron Bull. That was exactly why the Qunari couldn’t push comfort on Dorian. 

The way he reacted to the two of them couldn’t be more drastically different, and why not? They were very different people. Gethrael made him feel like a protector, bolstered his confidence when he was vulnerable. Bull knew it because the elf did the same for him - it was just the way he was. The way he smiled up at you made it feel like you could do anything. On the other hand, Iron Bull crushed anyone’s ability to protect with his own. There wasn’t much he could do about it, and he knew that too. He made people feel small and safe. The Inquisitor loved that, craved it. It made Dorian feel so deeply insecure that he had a visceral reaction to it. 

“Hey,” Iron Bull nudged Dorian in the shoulder, keeping a teasing edge to his voice. “Who gives a shit about the past when they’ve got the hottest elf in Thedas on their lap?” He spared Geth a lopsided grin, which was returned with dark, sparkling eyes. 

The mage scoffed, though he was still holding Gethrael like a precious thing. “Excuse me if the only people to ever care for me on this Maker-forsaken day are dead,” he snapped, “or if not dead; completely insane. A shell of the man he once was.” From the look on his face it was immediately clear he’d said more than he wanted to. Good. 

Understanding visibly flicked on behind Gethrael’s eyes. He straightened up in Dorian’s lap so as to look him in the face more easily. “I’m sorry. I know that must be hard,” he said, and the naked empathy in his expression warmed the mage a little. Bull watched his shoulders relax incrementally. Dorian hated pity, but needed that compassion more than anything - and the Inquisitor was limitless in his ability to give it. 

“Thank you, dearest,” Dorian said, and as they rested their foreheads together - no knowing which of them did that - he got a little glimmer in his eyes as well. After all, a lit match held long enough would get even the most stubborn wick burning. Gethrael’s tender gaze and gentle smile could get through anything. Bull knew from experience. “It’d please me for you to go and enjoy the party,” Dorian continued, “I’m not fit to be good company, and there’s many who are.”

The Iron Bull hid his smile. Cute that Dorian thought he could get rid of their Inquisitor that easily. When he put his mind to it, Gethrael easily matched Dorian in stubbornness. _Someone_ really needed that. It was one of the ways they worked well. 

“You’re very stupid, for such a smart man,” Geth teased, his lips quirking as he fought a grin. “I’d much rather spend it with those I care most about.” He pursed his lips in that way he did when he thought he was being exceptionally clever, and looked between Dorian and Bull. “So I’m happy here, actually.”

“Looks like you’re stuck spending Feastday with people who care about you again,” Bull said, giving Dorian a nudge that was too gentle to be genuinely teasing, but far enough removed from a comforting touch that it shouldn’t get his feathers all ruffled. 

“It certainly seems that way,” though the mage was looking away from him, Bull thought he could hear the hint of a smile. There we go, then. 

“Whenever you two are up for a little _celebrating_ ,” the Qunari’s suggestive tone made it perfectly clear what he meant, “I ordered a few little gifts from Orlais. I was hoping we could test ‘em out, but doesn’t have to be tonight.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, hoping Dorian could see the distraction he was being offered; if he wanted it. 

Geth sat bolt upright, brows drawn together. “Who told you about the gift-giving? Was it sera? Why does no one warn me about anything?” He said incredulously, then stared off into the middle distance. “... I’m going to tell her I’ve cursed her,” he added, doing that I’m-so-clever thing with his mouth again. 

“Come now,” Dorian said immediately, “what, you’ll make a little raincloud follow her about? Heal her of her wine-induced headache, perhaps? There isn’t as much entropy in your whole lovely body as there is in my little finger, dearest.”

Geth gave him a sly look, not offended in the least. “You really think she knows that?”

“You make an excellent point.”

Iron Bull was considering whether he should bother to point out that he’d been around Andrastians for a fair few more years than Gethrael had, and already knew about the gifts - and leaning towards no - when Dorian continued. 

“I, ah- got you something too,” he said, and Bull watched with great interest as he fished around in a pouch on his belt. Something in Dorian’s mannerisms tipped Bull off immediately. He was trying to be as flippant as he usually was, but the cracks in his demeanour were glaringly obvious to the Qunari. There was a frantic hint to his motions as he pulled out whatever he was looking for. 

Geth was still looking distressed. “I can’t believe this. I didn’t get either of you anything-”

“And I beg of you to _continue_ with that,” Dorian cut in with a clipped tone, and waved to silence the elf when he tried to speak again. “No, I won’t hear anything of it. I need nothing.” He took Gethrael’s hand - more like snatched it - and pressed something into it. 

It went without saying that The Iron Bull was very curious what it was that had Dorian all beside himself, and he watched Gethrael’s eyes light up as he looked at what’d just been shoved in his hand. 

“Dorian… isn’t this your house crest?”

“It is; and were we in Tevinter it’d be near impossible to find a smith willing to make you a replica. In Minrathous that’s an executable offence, you know.” Again, Dorian was blustering through the same way he’d comment on Vivienne’s Orlesian fashion, but behind his back, Bull was grinning. Gethrael knew this was an important gift, no matter how much Dorian tried to downplay it. He was slow, but he at the very least remembered how getting the mage’s crest back had finally pushed past that hot-and-cold dance they’d been in for months. He knew this represented something that remained very important to Dorian. 

As the Inquisitor went about clumsily fastening the necklace with a smile that would outshine the sun, Bull wondered how long it would take him to work through the layers of meaning that Dorian tried to brush off as nothing. When he would realize that this was Dorian saying, _you are my family now_. If he’d ever think of how the mage had almost certainly wanted something to mirror the necklace of kadan, and pushed past his fear of the promise that meant - only if no one ever brought it up, probably. 

It was huge. The warmth in Bull’s chest was overwhelming, but he knew better than to say anything. Dorian’s ego would be as fragile as bone china, and hearing that Iron Bull was proud of him would be enough to close him off for weeks at least. 

Bull did place a heavy hand on his lower back, supportive and firm; and Dorian did not move away. In fact, he leaned into it. Good. The mage looked over his shoulder to meet Iron Bull’s gaze. “We’ll discuss your gift later,” he said sharply, a trace of something in his expression hinting that it was perhaps more _physical_ than material. Might go along nicely with one of the surprises Bull had in store, depending on whether Dorian was promising him confident sadism or vulnerability. Both were good. 

Gethrael had managed to get the necklace on and was starting to pick at his hairpins. As pretty as his hair looked, Bull always preferred it down; so there would be no complaints from him. Dorian fussily tucked the necklace under his shirt. 

“... make sure you hide that when you visit Tevinter, darling. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t have it, remember.”

“Since when do you care about the rules?” The Inquisitor teased, shaking out his braids into a mane of loose waves. He tossed his pins carelessly and Bull heard them clatter to the flagstone floor. The Qunari tried to make note of where they landed, not wanting to step on them in the morning. That was a mistake you only wanted to make once. 

“Since I shudder to think at what might happen to an elf in possession of a magisterial crest,” Dorian said, suddenly sharply serious. Bull watched the hand on Gethrael’s waist shift just a little, a little more possessiveness in that grip. 

“With both of us to protect him? Nah,” he teased, wanting to lighten the moment. 

“I suppose you’re right, Bull - perhaps I should shudder to think of what might happen to anyone who crosses our dear Inquisitor.”

_Especially since you just proved no one gets past him when he puts his foot down,_ The Iron Bull thought, bemused. He decided, quite wisely, to keep that one to himself.


End file.
